Dear Mrs. Hyde, the ABCM Version

So...this woman emailed me at thewellfedspirit@gmail.com because she needed a fresh take on a situation at work. Apparently, she was gossiping about a co-worker, only to find out that her assumptions were untrue. She asked for my opinion as to what her next move should be, and as I specified previously, she chose from which of my personalities she wanted to get an answer. She chose both. I just want it to go on record that she chose to do this. Okay? I will not be held responsible for any trauma caused by my response. Let's all keep that in mind as we're wondering what the fuck she's on and how we can get a prescription that strong.

Here, I'll let her tell the story.

Okay, here's the deal. At my job, there was a rumor going around that one of the married women in my department (Mrs. K) was slipping down to the mail room and having noontime quickies with a guy down there. Now, I don't really like Mrs. K--she's the kind of person who is always talking about her new this or that. I can barely afford to put gas in the car. So, like everybody else I started whispering when she disappeared at lunch time.

Last week, I just happened to be in the mail room when she came down with her lunch. I hovered around to see which guy she would disappear with... Well, they didn't disappear. Her and the dude who wears eyeliner (Mr. E) were watching Ellen on a portable tv. 

So, now I feel like an ass, and I'm not sure what to do. Mrs. K notices that people are acting funny around her, but I don't think she knows why. I don't want to point out the obvious (Mr. E doesn't seem to be interested in women) because that's an HR violation. 

What should I do?


Um...yeah...how can I put this delicately? Oh, I know. Mind your fucking business. You said that you feel like an ass? Congratulations, you are. I mean, why in the name of Idris Elba's edible chocolate abs are you so concerned with what Mrs. K is doing on her lunch break? Get a life, boo. Because if you had a life, you'd be too busy to concern yourself with the potential sex lives of co-workers, married or otherwise.

I understand the mind of the hating ass bitch. (In case this is unclear, the hating ass bitch is you) You see a woman who has more material possessions than you. She drives a nice car, wears expensive clothes, owns a nice home, and has a gorgeous dick slinger to boot. She has worked hard for those things and is proud of her accomplishments, so she flaunts them. But that's not what you see. You, with your bad credit, hooptie, broken down slum apartment, and four baby's daddies see not the hard-working woman who has her shit together, but instead a stuck-up, bourgeoisie bitch who throws her wealth in the face of others. You know what? Maybe she is, but that's not the reason you hate her. You hate her because your shit is not together.

Your time can be much better spent if you focused more on achieving your goals and less on being a bitch about hers. You can spread rumors about her. You can put sugar in the gas tank of her BMW Z4 Roadster 2.5i (don't get caught because that's reasonable cause for a beat down). You could give her man the best blow job of his life in the parking lot while he waits for her to clock out from her high-paying job, but that won't change your situation. I get it. Misery loves company. What misery should start loving is effective fucking solutions.

What 's the difference between a happy bitch and a miserable bitch on one hand, and two miserable bitches on the other? Well, that's obvious, but the constant in both situations is that the original miserable bitch is still miserable. Think about it: do you really want her to be unhappy or is what you really want is for you to be happy, too?

Whether or not Mr. E is gay, because that's your implication, is none of your concern. There you go minding someone's business again. You should have no HR issues if you remember this: gay man or adulterous woman...there's no difference when you're slandering people.

To help your jealous ass save face, I submit the following. Go to your co-workers, you know, the ones with whom you've actively engaged in Mrs. K-bashing, and say, nonchalantly, "Girl(s), we were tripping. That bitch is down there watching Ellen with Mr. E, harming no one. I think I'll take this as a sign and mind my own dumb ass business from now on." Then eat your ramen noodles and shut the fuck up.

From now on, concentrate more on 'doing you' than 'fucking her' (over). Jealousy is not attractive. It's an ugly, poor, insecure, low self-esteem having punta.

You didn't know I spoke Spanish, did you?

Please.

I don't watch George Lopez for nothing.

If you want to read the zen bitch's my alter ego's response, go here. And puh-lease, if there's anything I left out, please include it in your comment.

Texting While Dumb

This is a post I did when I was a guest over at Can U Relate? in November. Some of you may have read it already, but that doesn't stop it from being a good read. Read it again. You  know you want to. It'll make you feel good. 


That's me being subliminal. The reason I'm semi-reposting is that I'm tired as hell. In the interest of not acquiring LADLE, I decided to shovel some snow this morning. My other interest was in not assaulting my kids. They've been home for five days now; that's the weekend, two days for Professional Dicking Off Development, and one snow day. I love my children (95% of the time), but too much of a good thing is not such a good thing. Look at me and Cuervo. See?


Thank you, Semi True Torystellar, if I haven't said it already, for letting me stomp your yard. That sounds vaguely sexual, doesn't it? Insert an inappropriate, yet funny joke here and we'll move on.


It's difficult to know what to write when called upon to guest blog for someone. Several things need to be taken into consideration. You have to consider what type of readers their blog has. Are they the sensitive, religious sort or are they heavy drinking party people? Or somewhere in between? What does one write as a guest blog post, anyway? I know what I write on A Bitch Called Mom, but is it appropriate for Can U Relate? Will Semi True Torystellar's readers like me or will they pelt me with stones for not being as wonderful and witty as she? Will they identify with what I have to say or will they shake their heads and wonder why I've wasted three minutes of their lives?

Fuck it. I gotta be me. If you don't like it, don't complain to me. This ain't my blog.

In keeping with the basic format of my own blog, I shall do what I do best: bitch. Not only will I bitch, but I will bitch about one of my favorite subjects. Drum roll, please...dumbasses.

Have you noticed lately that people appear to be getting dumber? With all this wonderful technology, with more people attending college, with slavery being abolished over 200 years ago, with women having had the right to vote since 1920, you would think that we would be rising. As a nation, as a society, as a whole. Instead we're falling. Then we get back up and fall again. Okay, so slavery and women's rights have little to do with this particular bitchfest, but roll with it.

Take texting for instance.



Calm the fuck down, I'm not about to bash texting. I, for one, don't like to have actual contact with people if at all possible. I love texting because that way people don't keep me occupied for hours with their annoying ass problems. If I could text sex in, my husband would get it way more often than he does now. Actually, if I took my cues from teenage girls, I guess I could text in sex. But I have a headache, so maybe tomorrow.

I get that it is easier and faster to type
idk y ur getn on my fukn nervs stop plz b4 i prk my fut up ur ass
rather than
I don't know why you're getting on my fucking nerves. Stop please, before I park my foot up your ass.

It's succinct, streamlined, expeditious. I appreciate quick answers because I have too much shit to do and not nearly enough time to do it. Gt 2 the fukn pt alredy.

This is what I've been seeing a lot on Facebook lately:

I Aint Gon ' Lieee , Yuh Lorr Butt Beh Loud As Ah Motha - Eff ' Err

And 

Gettinqq Hair Donee Todayy . Permm Is Callinnqq My Name Wooohhh Childdd , Lmboooo ! Noww I Gottaa Waitt For My Movah Too Cum Home ! Listen To Nicki Nd Customizinq Piksss ! Hmu !

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought the whole point of the texting/IMing thing was that you could type in less letters and still have people understand what you're trying to say. As you can see from my examples above, and hell no I did not make them up, we're apparently now supposed to use text misspellings with additional letters added at the end. WTBFF? (nobody was brave enough to ask what this meant in the original post, so I'll tell you now. What The Bloody Flying Fuck. Genius, I know.)

I don't understand why, if you have the inclination to type in additional letters, can't you just type in the correct spelling of the original word? Why does it seem like people are using texting as an excuse to be stupid?

If you're a poor, stupid shlub who can't spell, that's fine. We laugh at you behind your back, but we understand. Anyone who's ever had a brain fart and forgotten how to spell a simple word like "been" or "is" or something like that understands. If you're stuck in forever text mode and have a tendency to use text language in your emails to your boss, that's fine. You may not have a job for long, but we get it. But if you're an unpleasant combination of the two who also writessss innnn snakeeeee languageeee, I have a fucking problem. And if I have a problem, other people have to listen to me bitch about it.

Please do the world a favor and save it from my bitching. I think that's something we could all be thankful for.

To review, let's see what we've learned today:

1. stupid people chap my ass

2. I'm a bitch

3. I don't give a fuck doesn't like it

Amen.

P.S. Please like me. I need friends.

Public Service Announcement: Laptops

The following is a Public Service Announcement about laptop usage.

WARNING: Laptop usage may be hazardous to your health. Recent studies have shown that prolonged usage of a laptop while resting on a bed may cause a condition known as Lard Ass Disease Laptop Edition. LADLE has been associated with serious ailments such as severe muffin top-itis,

Make mine a double.

 cottage cheese thigh-opathy,

You can get a whole tub of this stuff at Sam's Club.

 inflammation of the bat wings,


 and multiple chin syndrome.

Apparently, there's a website that just gives people double chins. I wonder if they take donations?

 These conditions, while not fatal, may cause:
1. confusion over why your jeans don't fit
2. intense fear of swimsuit shopping
3. continuous chair breakage
4. the wearing of long pants and sleeves in the summertime
5. repeated embarrassing questions from small children such as, "Mommy, why is that lady so fat?" and "She's not going to sit on me, is she?" and worst of all "When is Mrs. Claus supposed to fly back to the North Pole?"

Please be aware of the dangers of LADLE. It is a progressive disease. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. One minute you're blogging away at 150 pounds, and the next you're blogging away at 170 pounds with a donut stick hanging from your mouth like a cigarette. Children are losing their parents at an alarming rate to LADLE. They're finding that their parents no longer want to play Dance, Dance Revolution on Wii. No one is playing catch in the back yard with their sons. Little girls are forced to have tea parties alone. Teenagers are cyber bullying and having sex right under their parents' noses and it's all going unnoticed.

Please. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for the children.


That is all.

Has anyone else been diagnosed with this disease? Just me? Damn.

Anyway, now that the whole world knows that my New Year's Resolutions are right on target, I want to thank two of my awesome friends for bestowing upon me the LOL Award.



Somehow, Jumble Mash, and The Tame One got the idea that I occasionally make people laugh. I don't know about all that, but I am tremendously grateful for their kind words and the amazing award. Thank you, ladies! These ladies have been known to make me laugh my ass off, which, as I told Tame, is a good thing because I've got plenty of ass to spare. I usually blow off choose not to do the award conditions just because the friends who award me have most, if not all, the same friends I have in the blog world. I try not to make you read the same post over here that you've already read at about ten other blogs because I want you to keep coming back. That's not to say I'm ungrateful. To the contrary, I am still amazed that there are people in this world who not only enjoy reading my bullshit, but also think it's award-worthy. Please don't stop showering me with awards. I love them. I love you. But I don't want people to skip past my post because they think they're going to read the same old thing. Not that I do that to anyone...

So even though I will not be telling you seven things you don't already know about me (let's face it, if you read this blog long enough, you will know every freaking thing there is to know), I will pass this award on to seven other blogs that I find hilarious.

So here they are, listed in the order that they appear on my blog roll (if you've already received this award, suck it up. You're getting it again and you're gonna be fucking happy about it):

A Vapid Blonde
Absolutely Narcissism
Can U Relate?
Dribble.....
Jumble Mash
Make Daddy a Sammich
Rants from the Hormonally Challenged
Simple Dude in a Complex World
stupid stuff i see and hear
Suldog
the bitchy waiter
The Ranter's Box
This and That (As I Bounce Thru Life)
Thoughts of an Oxymoron
Unsound Reasoning

What? I like funny. Also, I don't follow rules because I'm bad ass like that.

If you want to list seven things about yourself, and link the award back to me, and pass it on to seven people, and notify them on their blogs, go right ahead. If you don't, you have my permission to simply enjoy the fact that I find you so incredibly, gut-bustingly funny, that I thought you deserved to be recognized.

Or you could send me fifty bucks.

Whatever.

Half-Assed Baltimore: The Sequel

I want to apologize, in advance, for being extra bitchy this weekend. When this city decides to go above and beyond the call of mediocrity, they take it seriously. And understandably, it pisses off the mother of all bitches.

Last night, there was a water main break outside my house.

This isn't mine, but this is sure as hell what it felt like to me.

I called, they came a few hours later. They dug a hole in the ground, shut off the water supply, the entire neighborhood's water supply, and left. More than eight hours later, after hubby had to leave at 4 a.m. to go take a shower at the gym, they still hadn't stumbled their asses back to my neighborhood to fix the break.

Now, there are six people that live in this house, five of whom remain on a Saturday morning. Five people who can't flush the toilet behind themselves or wash their bodies. I don't want to describe to you the smell seeping from under the bathroom door. I don't care how much Nag Champa incense you burn or how many towels you stuff under that door, it's just bad. I may get an infection from holding my bladder, but lucky for me, alcoholics vodka lovers always keep a nice supply of cranberry juice around. It's too bad I can't wash my hands with cranberry juice. I have a...thing about washing my hands. I'm not saying I'm compulsive about it, but if I can't wash them soon, one of these water guys is going to find some dirty, finely manicured hands wrapped around his neck.

Fortunately, I had the foresight to fill some milk jugs with water last night. Thank God(dess) for recycling. Unfortunately, my oldest emptied one of them into the toilet this morning. After a number one, no less. Poor dumb thing. She doesn't know she's stupid. It's okay, honey, you can live with us for the rest of your life. Yeah...that's not gonna happen.

I called city services to find out the status of our being able to wash our asses, and that bitch wasn't the least bit helpful. "There's nothing we can do." she said. "You just have to be patient." she said. "Patient? Bitch, have you met me?" I asked. She hasn't. God must love her. I hung up on her ass because I didn't want to cuss her out. She's only the peon answering the phones. I didn't want to be the bitch that cusses out the little guy who has no control over the situation. But I did hang up on her in mid-sentence. Bitch pissed me off.

Hubby called shortly thereafter and asked if they were out there fixing the pipe. I ranted to him the same way I'm doing to you right now. He said, "That's all I wanted to know. I'll call you back." Ten minutes later, they were outside fixing the pipe.

I know I complain about him always from time to time, but you gotta love a guy who can get people to fix your shit so you can wash your ass.

This is the front of my house right now. Are those mother fuckers just standing there?

Half-Assed Baltimore

I hope you don't mind, Simple Dude, but I'm gonna go ahead and get the half-assed ball rolling this weekend. We were only 37 minutes into the weekend when shit started pissing me off, so...

In case you didn't feel like wasting two precious minutes of your life watching this video (and who could blame you?) this is Baltimore's mayor, Stephanie Rawlings-Blake fulfilling the losing end of a bet she made with Pittsburgh's mayor, Luke Ravenstahl over the Ravens/Steelers playoff game. I'm all for fun and games and friendly wagers between rivaling cities, but maybe, just maybe she should have done this before taking money out of the police officers' and firefighter's pockets while giving herself and the city council a raise. Why the hell do they get a raise? Aren't raises designed for employees who aren't fucking up?

Is this bitch for real? How much did this video cost to produce? Let's see, this is Baltimore City, so I'm going to make a conservative guess and say...carry the one... about a million dollars. All this city knows how to do is waste money. When I first enrolled my kids in school transportation at the beginning of the year, they were sending two separate school cabs to pick them up. Let me inform you that both of my children were leaving from the same house and going to the same school. A monstrous waste of money and resources. So I guess this video and other bullshit like it is what happened to the police officer's money that was just cut from their salaries. This is on top of the furlough days that were deducted from their paychecks earlier in the fiscal year. And it's retroactive.

Let me get this straight, Steph. Police officers are expected to fight crime in an increasingly crime-ridden city for less pay than the below-average wages they were already getting? And I'm supposed to feel safe in a city of (rightly) disgruntled police officers? Apparently so.

Good job, Mayor Rawlings-Blake. Good fucking job.

A half-assed post about a jackass. I think I've outdone myself.

Pole Dancing

I knew that would get your attention, ya perverts.

You guys have been blogging your asses off while I've been wallowing in self-pity. Yes, I've been wallowing, but, in my defense, I have a good reason this time. A really good reason. I'm not going to share it here because I try to maintain a certain level of levity on this blog. I may, however, share it with you in an upcoming post at The Well-Fed Spirit, a blog designed to feed your soul.

Shameless self-promotion, anyone?

I'm trying to catch up with everyone, but considering I follow 48 blogs and each of you has written at least one post in the past five days, I just don't know how I'm going to manage it. Guess I'll pop some microwave Orville Redenbacher, put P!nk on repeat in the background, and get to it...eventually.

Since I've been MIA, I thought it only fitting that I tell a story closely related to sex, a second cousin, if you will. I had to do something to make sure I don't lose any of my 92 followers. Ninety-fucking-two! That is awesomenesssssssss. Who remembers when there were just twelve of us? I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Simple Dude at Simple Dude in a Complex World. He mentioned me on his blog right after his BONing, so throngs of new people dared to trek over here to the bitchy side and some of them even stayed. Welcome to all of you! I am humbled, really. SD, your check is in the mail. Someday I'll tell you about the lengths I was prepared to go to in order to have Simple Dude follow my blog. I was a big fan of his blog, but he, sadly, was not a fan of mine. I devised a complex plan on how to change that and then...he became a follower. Just one more day and I would have begun the I ♥ Simple Dude campaign. Just like a man to make his move too soon.

I'd like to tell you about the time I enrolled in Pole Dancing classes.

You see that one girl on the floor? Now you know how I did in the class.

Blame Teri Hatcher. Her skinny ass was on Oprah gyrating and talking about, "You can do it, too!" and I, somehow, got the idea that I could do it, too. I don't think I've ever been more wrong about something in my life. I had this vision of myself effortlessly sliding down a stripper pole, flipping myself upside down, doing a split on the side of it, defying gravity with the sheer power of my thigh muscles. Did I mention that I hadn't done a leg lift or squat in about five years? You remember that episode of the King of Queens where Doug begged Carrie to take pole dancing lessons and when she finally gave in, she was horrible at it? Yeah...no, I wasn't that bad. But I wasn't far from it.

Let me give you a poles-eye view of the pole dancing room. There are mirrors covering three of the four walls. That's so when you try to flip your big ass upside down and your cellulite hits the pole before you do, you can see it clearly. Nice. There are about 10 poles scattered over a room that's maybe 30 square feet. The bowels of hell can't even compete with the temperature in there, and saying it smelled like ass is an understatement. It smelled like hot ass in a shit storm on a Tuesday in Shitsburgh, uh, Pittsburgh. Sorry, I'm still pissed that they knocked my team out of the playoffs.

Oilfield Trash, not one word from you. This is my house and in my house, the Ravens rule. Now go make Mrs. Hyde a sammich, biatch!

Oh, shit. Did I just start a fight with a guy who eats homeless people for breakfast? I should really learn when to shut the fuck up.

So excited was I to wrap myself around a pole, I didn't even mind the stench, and neither, apparently, did the nine other women in the class. It was taught by a former stripper named Champagne. Or Merlot. Alize? Shit, I don't remember. For sixty minutes, she patiently coached ten women in varying degrees of unfit the sensual art of pole dancing. It was the most fun I'd ever had breaking a sweat. I broke so much of a sweat that every time I jumped up on the pole, I'd slide right down to the floor. While everyone else was hanging on to the pole in mid-air, my feet were firmly planted to the ground no matter how many times I dried the pole or my sweaty hands. So as long as we didn't have to climb, I was good.

At the end of the class, we had to do our own thing. She played music for about three minutes and we had to show her what we'd learned. You should have seen us tossing our hair from side to side, twirling our hips, kicking our legs. We looked like a group of giant babies learning how to walk. On crack.

But that shit was fun! I think every woman should try it at least once. At least that way I won't be the only Teri Hatcher victim. I liked it so much that I signed up for the premium package which included a pair of six inch clear stilletto heels and a year's worth of classes. I've never gone back, though, and the only time I've worn the clear heels is when my husband wanted me to try them on "just to see how they look." That was about five or six years ago.

I wonder if my contract is still good?

Half-Assed

There are so many times that I just have a thought or two that I'd like to share, but it's not necessarily worth a whole post. I usually just say screw it and keep it to myself. Sometimes I subject my husband and kids to my fluky nonsense, but in the spirit of Simple Dude's Half-Assed Weekend Posts, I will share with you the following random thought.

In the book and subsequent movie, Charlotte's Web, why the hell did the pig get credit for the writings Charlotte spun in her web? What kind of in-bred, back-woods, cousin-fucking thought pattern would cause someone to believe that a pig could not only spin a spider's web, but also form perfectly spelled phrases? It was one of my childhood favorites and I didn't want the pig to be chopped into various delicious cuts of meat either, but really? Really?

Wow...that was fun. I may have to do some half-assed weekday posts as well.

Dollar Store Danger

First, I'd like to thank the blog gods, without whom none of this would be possible. Next, I want to thank my husband who has been so supportive of  my need to bitch to strangers. Thank you, honey! Oh, and I can't forget all the dumbasses who have given me endless blogging topics what with all their dumb ass antics. I love you all. Without you, there is no me.

I'm back now. Just having a little dream of blog fame. Seriously, though, I would like to thank all of my wonderful friends and readers who have given me awards and nominated me for The 2011 Bloggies. I am honored and deeply touched. I knew that I was going to nominate my favorite blogs, but it never even occurred to me that people would nominate me. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This is my new Stylish Blogger award from Jumble Mash:

and here's my Life Is Good award from Semi True Torystellar:


I will get to passing the awards on and their conditions later. Right now I have a promise to fulfill...the Dollar General story.

Last week, I promised to tell you the harrowing story of why I refuse to go to the dollar store on Friday mornings. Here goes. May my pain be your entertainment.

Follow me, if you will, to a cold Friday morning in the winter of 2008. Our antique washing machine (or was it the dryer? I forget) was on the fritz, again, so I had to venture out into the cold to wash, dry, and fold a week's worth of laundry for six people at my local laundromat. The one good thing about using the laundromat is that you can get it all done in one swoop. So, instead of taking a whole day to do laundry, you could be finished in roughly two hours. That's good shit.

This laundromat was located in a shopping center, some of you may refer to it as a strip mall, so in addition to laundry, you could have lunch at the Chinese carry-out, replenish your liquor cabinet, stock up on synthetic hair, buy a year's worth of unhealthy groceries for under $100, or peruse the inexpensive, low-quality wares of the Dollar General store.

There I was in the second stretch of the laundry games, drying my delicates at an unnaturally high temperature,  when I decided to take a short walk down to Dollar General. I had 56 minutes to kill. My fridge was already overflowing with cheap, unhealthy food. Of course, you already know that both my liquor cabinet and weave were tight, and greasy Chinese gives me the trots. Yes, Dollar General it was.

I was in there browsing, trying not to brush up against anything lest my clothing be covered in three month old dust. I briefly considered calling my husband to chit chat, but then I remembered he was asleep having just gotten in from work about three hours prior. No sooner had I put my phone back inside my coat pocket that I heard a commotion from the front of the store. There was a distinctly masculine voice yelling at someone. I couldn't understand what he was saying because, although I could tell it was male, the voice was muffled.

That's odd, I thought as I walked toward the front of the store like the stupid woman in the horror movie running from the killer in six inch stilettos. You know the one. You're screaming at the screen, "Bitch, take off the damn heels! He's right behind you!" But for all your helpful screaming, she leaves them on and trips over a log the size of a German Shepard and somehow, can't figure out how to get back up. I'm her now, walking my dumb ass toward the danger instead of away from it.

I get to the front and realize that the yelling is coming from the manager's office, the one cleverly concealed by a two-way mirror. Whomever thought of that one is a fucking genius. I would have never guessed that there was an office back there. You mean this isn't a regular mirror placed here for customer convenience in the baby care section? But I need to see myself as I shop for diapers and nursing pads. Whatever.

There's lots of movement and yelling going on in there now. It sounds like the manager is being attacked, but I still can't make out what the attacker is saying. I look toward the door and there is a guy in a ski mask kneeling and tying his shoe. Yes, folks, he was tying his shoe. That's how you ensure that you won't fall when your ass is being chased.

Think fast, Mrs. Hyde...the door is blocked by a possibly dangerous assailant...what do you do? Return to the rear of the store, of course. Get as far away from these thugs as possible and maybe they won't notice you. I walk back down the aisle and my heart is pounding in my chest. A man and a woman who apparently had the same idea, join me in the back. I remember that I have my cell phone right there in my right pocket. I can dial 911 while the criminals are occupied at the front! Then a little voice in my head said, "That's not a good idea. What if they hear you?" Right. I'll wait until they leave and then call.

A split second later, a split-fucking-second, the shoe-tying bandit rounded the corner, seemingly from nowhere, pointing a huge silver gun at us. "Everybody face down on the floor," he said, gesturing with the menacing weapon. We got our asses down on that floor but quick. He lingered a second too long, and in that moment, I thought sure he would shoot me in the back of my head.


No! I thought. I am not going to die like this on the dirty floor of the Dollar General. I am going to get up from here soon and I am going to get my clothes out of that god awful laundromat and I am going to pick my kids up from school. I am going to see my kids and husband again. I am going to talk to my sister again. I'm going to leave this place alive.

By the time my inner pep talk was over, they were gone. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that we were all still alive. The police were called and one man, who probably had warrants pending, made himself scarce real fast.

And now for the part that pissed me off.

While we waited for the police to arrive, my bossiness kicked into overdrive. I had worked at a bank for several years, so I knew what to do in case of a robbery. The manager was pretty shaken, she couldn't do much to help. I told everyone not to leave until the police arrived. I told them not to talk to each other about the description of the robbers, so their answers wouldn't influence the memory of the others. And would somebody puh-lease get this female off-duty police officer who's having a nervous breakdown a drink of water and a chair?

Listen, I understand that the woman was traumatized. I understand that she'd thought her life was in danger. Her life probably flashed before her eyes and all that. But....BUT doesn't this bitch get paid for this shit? More than that, isn't this bitch trained specifically to handle dangerous situations? I didn't expect her to whip out her nine millimeter and get to capping, but I damn sure didn't expect her to bawl like a fucking toddler. Anyone who carries a semi-automatic weapon around on a regular basis should not be a blubbering fool under pressure. All the take-charge shit I was doing, she was supposed to be doing. Why wasn't that bitch getting my ass a drink of water? If ever there was a bitch in the wrong fucking profession, it was she, and don't think I didn't tell her that shit, either.

To ease your minds, I want you to know that I wasn't mean to her. I made somebody bring her weeping ass a chair, didn't I? What I said to her was more like, "Honey, maybe you should think about a new career. The dangerous job you have now is, obviously, not for you." Her face flushed and wet, snot making a slimy path toward her mouth, she nodded and said, "You might be right."

Um...Ya think?

And the Nomination Goes to...

I know I promised to tell you the story of why I don't go to the dollar store on Friday mornings, and I will, but not now. I did something today that I hope each of you will also do and that's nominate your favorite blogs for the 2011 Annual Weblog Awards at this website.



Okay, that's an Oscar. Same thing. Here are my nominations:

Best Australian or New Zealand Weblog:
1. Dribble..... (Not yet because I haven't gotten her permission. Her blog is anonymous, so I didn't want to nominate her if she wasn't comfortable with it. But as soon as I get the okay, the nom is hers).
2. ~Core Blimey~

Best Parenting Weblog:
1. Absolutely Narcissism
2. Thoughts of an Oxymoron

Best Topical Weblog:
The Well-Fed Spirit

Most Humorous Weblog:
1. Simple Dude in a Complex World
2. stupid stuff i see and hear
3. Visions unto myself

Best Writing in a Weblog:
1. The Long Journey to the Middle
2. The Well-Fed Spirit
3. This and That (As I Bounce Thru Life)

The Best Kept Secret Weblog:
1. A Bitch Called Mom
2. Can U Relate?
3. The Ranter's Box

Best New Weblog (started in 2010):
1. Jumble Mash
2. Rants from the Hormonally Challenged
3. Unsound Reasoning

Lifetime Achievement:
Micael Chadwick

Weblog of the Year:
1. The Bitchy Waiter
2. The Ranter's Box
3. The Long Journey to the Middle
4. The Well-Fed Spirit

All of the people that write these blogs deserve an award. Some people have no idea the time, effort, and research that goes into a well-planned, informative, and entertaining blog. If you have not yet had the pleasure of reading any of the blogs mentioned above, stop what you're doing and get your ass over there. I tried to include as many of my favorite blogs as possible, but if I missed you, please don't take it personally. Sometimes the decision has to be made to select the best of the best and that's what I did. I'm not just blowing smoke up your ass, either. I don't follow blogs that I don't find interesting, entertaining and/or non-offensive. A blog has to "do something" for me in order for me to follow it.

If you're over 30, you can also go to Studio Thirty Plus where they are also doling out blog awards. No babies allowed, so if you're 18-29 years old, in the prime of your life, with no sagging skin whatsoever, you're not invited.

Stay tuned for my Dollar General story. It involves anger, guns, laundry detergent, and a decision that saved my life.

Aunt Flo and the Assholes Who Love Her

Happy New Year to everyone to whom I haven't already said it. There. I don't have to say it anymore until next year. If I haven't said it to you yet, and you're neither smart nor intuitive enough to read this blog post, well then, you're shit out of luck.

Apparently, there have been a lot of people whose new year's resolution was to follow more blogs because I have doubled my readership in the past week. I'm not saying that I'm the best, but... I'm the best. A great big, bitchy welcome to all my new readers. I will try to return the favor, but I'm a busy bitch, so if I forget you sometimes, suck it up. I once forgot my two-year-old at a state park and I love him, so... Calm down, I remembered him by the time I was half way to the car.

Now to the reason for this particular bitch fest: feminine hygiene products.

Can we talk like girlfriends? Good, 'cause I'm going to do it anyway. Bruce, Rabbit, and Dad, I hereby dub thee honorary girlfriends. The same goes for any man who reads this blog, but I have yet to get to know. If that doesn't work for you, just pretend you're watching the game and a commercial for tampons came on at halftime.

Let's dish.

Because I'm still of childbearing age, barely, but still there, I have occasion to purchase feminine hygiene products. I try to avoid it simply because it's a pain in the ass. Usually, I buy the biggest box I can find so that it takes me months to have to do it again. Well, today, I needed to do it again. Yesterday, actually, but I push my luck with everything else, so why should this be different?

I made a list of all the things I would need and I was all set for a quick trip to Wally World or Target (read tar-zhay). Then I remembered that I haven't been to the store all week, so I will need to add a few things to my list. The list goes from three to fifteen items long. Then I remember that it's Friday, pizza night, and I don't have any pizza or items to make pizza. That means I have to go to another store. Well, if I have to go to two stores, I may as well clip those coupons that have been sitting on my desk since Sunday. Since I'm clipping coupons, I may as well look through the sale papers so I can get some sale/coupon combos. I mean, that only makes sense, right?

And this, gentlemen, is why it takes women so long to get ready to leave the house. Now you know. No need to thank me.

I had planned to leave the house at around 8:30 a.m., but with all the new items on my to-do list, it was looking more like 9:30 or 10:00. Oh shit, I haven't showered or eaten yet. Make that 10:30. Well, Mother Nature, Aunt Flo, or The-Thing-That-Created-Mrs.-Hyde, does not like to wait. She's an impatient bitch and she was telling me, not at all subtly, that she would not wait until 10:00. So, I drag myself to my neighborhood Family Dollar to get the biggest box of, um, supplies they sell.

Now, I don't like going to any dollar store on a Friday morning, for reasons I will tell you in my next post, but there I was with the male cashier, and five male customers. Not a woman in sight. I tried to locate the obvious sale they were having on hand lotion and tube socks, but no luck. I took my items to the cash register, the guy rung them up, and just stood there waiting for my money. I dug in my change purse to find the coin portion of my total. Then I went to the bills section of the wallet and fished out a $20 bill. The whole time I'm doing this, instead of bagging my items so that the other men will not see my very personal purchases, this ass clown just leaves my things scattered across the counter until:
1. I get money from two sections of my wallet,
2. give it to him,
3. he punches in the amount,
4. retrieves my change,
5. closes the drawer,
6. rips off the receipt,
7. hands me my change,
and only then does he bag my items. By that time every man in the store was in line behind me.

I have long since gotten over being embarrassed when men see me buying feminine hygiene products. It's life, and men know that women have periods, so nothing to be ashamed of. But even though I'm not ashamed, I wanted to bash his fucking face in with a can of FDS. Would it have killed him to bag my shit before all the men in the city saw what I was buying? Asshole.

Who came up with that cutesy little name, Aunt Flo, anyway? I take issue with it. She is nothing like my aunts. That bitch is just plain rude. My aunts would never just show up, out of the blue, and expect everyone to cater to her needs. My aunts don't leave messes and expect others to clean up after them. My aunts don't expect me to change my plans just for them. If it's not a good time for a visit, my aunts will plan to come when the timing is better for everyone. And if my aunts are upset with me, they won't kick my ass just for GP. Fuck that bitch. She ain't no aunt of mine.

****BTW, the zen bitch is making me pimp her from now on. Something about helping people in 2011 or some shit like that. If you have any questions or issues about which you would like a fresh perspective, email thewellfedspirit@gmail.com and your question and her subsequent response will be featured on The Well-Fed Spirit blog. When you email, let me know if you want your answer from the zen bitch (TWFS) or me (ABCM). If you pick me, you question will appear here. Thanks!